The trial was set for April 11, 1661. Guthrie came before the tribunal, full of peace and comfort. He answered for himself in a masterly speech. His pleading was deeply felt; some members of the court arose and walked out, saying, "We will have nothing to do with the blood of this righteous man." He was urged to retract. He was offered a high office in the Episcopal Church if he would accede to their terms. Such inducements he held in contempt. Neither threat nor reward could weaken his loyalty to the Lord Jesus Christ and the Covenant. The closing sentence of his defence was tender, fearless, and sublime: "My lords, my conscience I cannot submit; but this old crazy body and mortal flesh I do submit, to do with it whatever ye will, whether by death, or banishment, or imprisonment, or anything else; only I beseech you to ponder well what profit there is in my blood. It is not the extinguishing of me, or many others, that will extinguish the Covenant and the work of Reformation. My blood, bondage, or banishment will contribute more for the propagation of these things, than my life or liberty could do, though I should live many years." The death sentence was passed upon him. He was condemned to be hanged, his head to be placed above the city gate beside Argyle's. He received the sentence with great composure. The execution was fixed for the first day of June. To those who sat in judgement on his case, he replied: "My lords, let this sentence never affect you more than it does me; and let my blood never be required of the king's family." In such cases doubtless the wife through sympathy is the greater sufferer. But Mrs. Guthrie was strong in the Lord, and had courage equal to her trials. She was her husband's faithful helper in the difficult places. Once when duty imperiled his life, and he was in danger of halting, she urged him on, saying, "My heart, what the Lord gives you light and clearness to do, that do." Noble words! nothing wiser or greater could come from consecrated lips. Just before his death Guthrie was permitted to see his son, Willie, at that time five years old. The father tenderly fondled his child, so soon to become an orphan, and spoke words adapted to the innocent heart. So little did the child comprehend the terrible tragedy, that he could scarcely be restrained from playing on the street while his father was dying. But the meaning soon dawned upon him with melancholy effect. It is said that he never played again.